Reavers (Z-Risen Series Book 4) (13 page)

13:05 hours approximate

Location: Somewhere near Vista, CA

“There’s two in back, two in front. Take our chances and surprise the ones near the truck? They might not expect us.”

“Better idea than what I had, which was to surrender,” I muttered.

We nodded at each other, checked our weapons, and then advanced on the entryway.

No one shot in our direction, so we made a run for it.

The guy must have known the house’s layout well. My guess was that he’d shimmied through a window and been in position when we made for the back door.

He opened the door as we hauled ass down the hallway and made a stiff arm. Mateo got his hands up, but hit the floor when he ran into the man’s arm.

Being right behind Mateo, I stumbled over him. Hands splayed out, I landed half on top of him and half on the ground. The breath left my body and I saw stars. I reached for my sidearm, but a hand stomped down on my hand.
I rolled over with a curse and was met by a cold silver revolver. The barrel hung over my face, wide and gaping.

There was a moment when I was certain a bullet would race down the tube and end me. I could almost feel it. Maybe I’d be able to move my head to the side at the last second, then grab the weapon and wrestle it away. I’d be able to shoot this guy and grab Mateo, and we’d make a run for it.

But something happened when I stared down that barrel. I was terrified. I’d been scared half to death for most of the past five or six weeks, but this was literally staring death in the face.

“Got ‘em, Queasy. Wanna come finish ‘em off?” the greasy haired man yelled toward the doorway.

The guy was dressed in what amounted to little more than rags. His clothes had seen better days maybe six months ago. He reeked of sweat and dirt, and he generally reminded me of a homeless person. But he aimed the revolver steady at my
head
.

Mateo rolled to the side and put his hands over his head
.

“Can I at least get up?” I asked.

I was laying on my wrench, and it was a dull lump in my back.

“Shut the fuck up and stay there. We got questions.”

“
I
got a question. Why are you being a dick?”

The guy looked at me like I was a bug. “Didn’t I just say shut the fuck up?”

Then he lifted his boot and drove it into my stomach.

The big guy--who must have been Queasy--strode through the door. He was the one with mohawk and brightly-colored hair. He carried a huge assault rifle but he held it in one hand.

Queasy was at least two hundred and eighty pounds, and carried that weight through his entire body. He wore a black leather jacket that was splattered with several shades of red and dirt. A massive beard engulfed his face and hung in greasy strands like his hair.

I know times are rough in the apocalypse, but come on, at least make an attempt to clean up every once in a while. Lots of stores
still
had racks of baby wipes.
Use
'em, dude.

I lay
curled up and tried to catch my breath as this dick head found us. He lowered the shotgun and pointed it at Mateo.

“Got a question: where’d you guys get all those supplies?”

“From your mom’s house. Tell her I said hi,” Mateo replied.

That got him a boot in the gut. He choked, rolled over, and gasped for breath. Smartass points for Mateo; not so much for both of us sucking in air.

“Go check the inside of that truck in case there’s more of them out there. I’ll stay here and catch up with our new friends.”

“What about the morons?” Greasy hair asked.

“Fuckers better be out there.”

“Okay, Queasy,” the guy said. “Back in two seconds. Dowser and Little Mike are on the way.”

We were left with a shotgun-wielding maniac named Queasy. Ironically, that’s how I felt lying next to this guy, after getting kicked in the gut. Queasy, Little Mike, and Dowser. Who comes up with this shit?

“Like I was saying, where’d you get all that fancy new gear?” Queasy leaned over and asked me. Not an easy feat with that gut.

“Army surplus. We hit one a few weeks ago and took everything that wasn’t nailed down,” I said.

“Bullshit. You have food, water, fresh clothes. Tell me where you got that stuff and we might let you live,” he said, like he was a Bond villain.
No, Mr. Creed, I expect you to die.

“It’s not bullshit,” I said. “Scout’s honor.”

Let me just say that even though I was filling the space with bravado, I was scared to fucking death. But this was the thing about being scared to death: I’d felt like this too many times over the last few months. It used to make my gut clench up. With these assholes holding guns over us, I was trying to play it cool. Instead I felt like I was about to shit my pants.

“We got friends, man, and they’ll be here soon,” Mateo bluffed.

“Perfect. They going to have the same supplies as you guys? Tough old world out there, boys, gotta do what you gotta do to survive. Am I right?”

“Dude, just let us fucking go. Keep all the stuff in the truck and we’ll call it good,” I tried to reason.

“How about this: I blow one of your brains out. I only need one of you to take me to your goody stash,” Queasy said.

He started swinging the barrel of the shotgun between us, aiming at my head, and then Mateo’s. My breath quickened and my gut tied up in a knot.

Someone stumbled through the doorway.

“Did you find the others?” Queasy asked, turning his head casually to the side.

Another set of footsteps.

I took my eyes off the shotgun for a second to see what Dowser and Little Mike looked like and gasped.

The pair of Zs were fairly fresh. One of them lifted his hands and made clawing motions at the air. His girlfriend--a previously cute thing dressed in hot pants and a bright red velvet jacket like she was an escapee from a production of
Grease
--followed her boyfriend's lead.

“Okay, I’ll tell you. Just don’t shoot us, man,” I pleaded.

That got Queasy’s attention. He licked his lips.

The first Z was
almost on him when he finally looked over his shoulder.

“Fuck!” Queasy yelled and spun.

He lifted the shotgun and fired, catching Hot Pants in the side. She spun and almost went down.

I rolled to my left, gripped the pipe wrench, and swung. It was still attached to my shoulder harness, so I didn’t manage much of a blow. Still, I hit Queasy in the ankle. He screamed in pain as he dropped to one knee.

Another Z followed the first pair.

I ripped the wrench free and hit Queasy in the back of the thigh. He sucked in a breath and fell forward.

One of Queasy’s pals came in blasting.

I rolled to my knees and
grabbed the AK-47 the fat guy had carried. We didn’t wait around to see how the battle went down. As much as I’d have liked to take another swing at Queasy’s head, I didn’t have time.

Mateo and I fled the hallway and ran back into the kitchen.

###

13:30 hours approximate

Location: Somewhere near Vista, CA

We’d made a big mistake by leaving the heavier weapons in the truck while we went exploring. But even if we’d had assault rifles and a huge bag of ammo, what chance would we have had against the experienced foes that had come after us?

I had no delusions about a firefight. I’d seen more than my fair share. They were fast and ugly affairs where it was likely we’d be wounded or killed outright in a few minutes. We may have been able to chase them away, sure, but I had no desire to find out. We didn’t even know how many we’d have faced.

The back of the house opened up near a dirt path. We hoofed it and came under fire again.

At least three figures pursued us.

I found a trash container and ducked behind it. The thing was plastic and wouldn’t offer any protection, so I rose up and fired five or six
bullets at our pursuers. The AK-47 hammered back into my hands, but my shots had the effect of making our attackers think twice.

I fired a few more times--compensation for the heavy pull of the barrel. Someone screeched but I wasn’t sure if it was in response to my rounds.

Mateo and I hustled to the street and were about to run across it when someone shot at us from our six.

The blasts kicked up pieces of asphalt. I dove behind a car wreck and took a deep breath. We’d been flanked while we were farting around.

More rounds hammered into the car.

Mateo returned fire, in the direction the shots had come from.

One of the pursuers came into the alley, so I shot at him. Guy was low to the ground and dressed in rags. The heavy who’d been hiding behind the truck strode into view like he wasn’t scared of shit. He carried a huge shotgun now, and fired from the hip.

At thirty or forty yards the rounds weren’t exactly deadly--at least, that’s what Joel had taught me--but he scared the shit out of me.

I ducked around to the other side of the car and tried to calm my breathing.

The passenger
window had been shot through a couple of times, but the frame was still intact as well as a huge shard of glass. It was dirty, so my shape was probably a blur to the men. I took aim and emptied the magazine, spraying lead all over the damn place.

The bolt slammed open, so I fumbled for a magazine.

Mateo put more heat on the targets, dashing across the street toward a burned-out gas station.

I found the button, and the empty magazine hit the ground.

I worked a fresh mag home and shot a few more rounds at our pursuers. Then I followed Mateo.

The men advanced on our position.

I did a quick reckoning.

I had one magazine left for the AK and one for my 9mm. At this rate I’d be completely out of ammo in a few seconds.

Why the fuck didn’t these guys just give up? Did they have some score to settle with us? It wasn’t like they knew us. Then again, we’d already dropped a couple of them. Maybe they were just pissed because some of their comrades were down.

A pair of rounds blew past my head. I ducked behind a gas pump, looked at it, and then decided not to find out if these things blew up like they did in the movies.

Mateo moved to the doorway of the gas station and returned fire while I dove inside. I hit the ground hard and swung around. Back on my feet but feeling the effects of the dash and dive, I gasped for breath. My heart thundered in my chest. I had to lean over and put my hands on my knees to steady myself.

“Shit, they’re still coming,” Mateo said.

“Around the side. I saw a strip mall. We can make it.”

“We’re gonna have to,” Mateo said. “How much ammo you got?”

“Not enough. The AK’s about half empty. Got an extra mag for the 9, you?” I asked.

“About the same. Maybe we can circle around the block and get back in the truck while they’re all looking for us.”

“Maybe. That heavy looked like he was going to stay in place. How someone remains that big during the zombie apocalypse is beyond me,” I said.

“Dude looked like a professional sumo wrestler,” Mateo said.

Rounds punched into the gas station. I motioned for Mateo to get ready. He poked his head outside, fired off three rounds and ran. I was right behind him, pausing at the door and opening up with the Kalashnikov. I didn’t hit shit, but those guys kept their heads ducked.

We hauled ass along the side of the gas station, hit a sidewalk and kept on hoofing. The strip mall was across the
street, and it looked like it offered very little protection. Still, it was better than sitting here hoping to get lucky with a few potshots.

Something roared across the road and slammed to a halt. It took up station in the middle of the avenue
we’d been planning to dash across. No more than fifty yards away sat the fat guy with the big, bushy red beard. He lifted an assault rifle and aimed it in our direction.

I grabbed Mateo’s shirt and dragged him behind a small stand of palm trees. It wasn't much protection, but a few shrubs were a dozen feet away. I fired wildly, trying to keep the asshole’s aim from concentrating on us. I may have hit the side of his truck.

“Got you now. Tell you how I feel about you killing my little house slut, you fuckers. I’m going to use the skinny Mexican as my new bitch,” the man yelled.

“It’s Latino, you racist asshole,” Mateo yelled back. He lifted up and fired at the truck.

The man ducked, but his laugh echoed.

The pair behind us moved like they didn’t give a shit that we heard them. They catcalled and hooted as we tried to find cover but we were completely
boxed in.

Bullets kicked up dirt near my feet so I tugged my appendages closer to my body.

I couldn’t believe that after all of this time surviving the zombie apocalypse, I was going to die in the dust, shot
by some sleazeballs with a grudge that didn’t even make sense. The woman had killed herself, it wasn’t us. She’d been terrorized and brutalized, from what I’d seen. It was no wonder she didn’t want to go another round with those guys.

The guy in the truck fired in our general direction as his boys closed in.

“Gotcha,” a voice said from behind me.

I turned to look the man in the face. The guy who was about to end me.

Only he didn’t look so smug anymore, because his jaw disappeared in a puff of blood and gristle.

The other guy stared at his friend, then ducked.

I got smart and shot him. The Kalashnikov ran dry as I emptied the last half-dozen rounds into his body.

Mateo didn’t wait to be told what to do. He rolled
behind
the shrub, aimed at the truck and fired three or four rounds in rapid succession. They punched into the door, hit the upper roof, and judging by the squeal of pain, the fat dude, too.

The truck slammed into gear and rolled away with a screech of tires.

Another loud boom sounded and the truck’s rear window spider-webbed. The car rolled slowly to a halt.

“Who the fuck did that?” Mateo said, looking
around
.

I did as well, but we kept low in case they weren’t friendly. Maybe they’d seen the bad guys and shot them out of some sociopathic need to kill. Maybe they wanted the heavies' supplies. Whatever the reason, they might think we were a threat and decide to erase us next.

A SUV moved up the street and stopped next to the curb. I lifted the 9mm and thought quickly about how many rounds I had left.

“If you shoot me, I’m going to be very fucking disappointed, Creed,” a familiar voice said.

“Well fuck me six ways from Sunday,” I said and pushed myself to my feet.

Inside a red Jeep Liberty sat my friend, Joel Kelly.

###